— • —
1.09.1 - Stratagems of Love
The course of young love never runs true. So when a handsome young corporal of militia ensnares Bea the buxum barmaid, who until then has been the light of Jimma's life, things are apt to get out of hand.
On the evening in question, Jarge, as soon as he had appreciated the trend of events, had left the Crossed Arms. Now, after nipping into his cottage to fetch a few things, he has taken a short cut across the churchyard and is awaiting Jimma in the moon-shadows beneath the elms of Gallows Lane:
“Pssst!” say Jarge, “Zatt yew Jimma?”
“Shaddup Jarge,” say Jimma, stumbl'n atwin th'pot'oles, “Oi dunt need nun a'yor squit.”
“How menna a'yew hed?” say Jarge, “Sprawl'n abowt loike a searler.”
“Thas nut ales in the hed,” say Jimma, “Thas 'oles in the rud.”
“Ri'chew are,” say Jarge, “If thas nut wun sort a'pot, thassa'nutha.”
“Whutchew gawn on abowt now?” say Jimma, “Oi need yer squit loike Oi need an'ole in th'hed.”
“Trew Luv,” say Jarge, “Tactuss an' stratajumms.”
“Wot stratajumms?” say Jimma, “Come ter thet, wot luv?”
“Wull,” say Jarge, “Fer stratajumms, Oi suggest gittin har back by meark'n a fule a th'corpr'l.”
“Sown'gud ter me,” say Jimma, “So how dew Oi dew thet?”
“A stratajumm iz nOo gud wi'owt tactuss,” say Jarge.
“Oi spuz nut,” say Jimma, “So wuss th'fust tactuck?”
“Thus,” say Jarge, wav'n a quart-size stone jar in a handy moonbeam.
— • —
1.09.2 - A Peaceful Man at Heart
The scene in Gallows Lane is one of stark contrasts. The avenue of young elms stands tall in the moonlight, their crisp shadows seeming to bar the way for creatures of both light or night. Fortunately, Jarge and Jimma, whose moral spectrum is currently locked on grey, are immune to these effects.
Jarge has in his hand a quart of strong ale laced with laudanum (a tincture of opium), sweetened with sugar and disguised with cloves and limes. He has just waved this stoneware jar in Jimma's face:
“Fwoof!” says Jimma, “Dunchew tempt me wiv'more drink, Bor.”
“Thas nut fer yew, Bor,” say Jarge, “Thas fer th'fust tacktuk in ar'stratajumm.”
“Stata-wot?” say Jimma, “Yew meen gitt'n even wi'th'corpr'l?”
“Thas rite,” say Jarge, “Fer steal'n yor tru'luv Beatr'ce.”
“Th'corpr'l?” say Jimma, “Dew Oi just ketch'im a wallop wiv'ut?”
“Wull, yew cud,” say Jarge, “But thet wunt git yer gal back'n yer arm.”
“Yer rite,” say Jimma, “She orf'n say she loike a peacefu'man at hart.”
“Wudda she meen by gawn arta a sojer, then?” say Jarge, “Can't trust'em.”
“Dunchew wag ya'jaw at moi gal,” say Jimma, whose peacefulness was under considerable pressure.
“Jus'howd yew hard,” say Jarge, “Shut yer gob an'open yer lugs.”
“Oi'm orl ears,” say Jimma, begin'n ter tarn sarky, “Th'congregeart'n ar'in th'pews, orl we need now is th'sermon.”
— • —
1.09.3 - Whispers in the Night
With Jimma keeping a tactical look-out, Jarge has infiltrated the scullery yard at the back of The Big House, hoping to enlist the aid of his old flame, Sir Marcus's Cook. He is about to tap gently on the door, when an upper floor window scrapes open above his head:
“Hew izzut?” say Tottie, th'smallest a'th'Scullions, leen'n owt in har nite-cap an' shift.
“Nivva yew moind,” say Jarge, “Lissen, Oi got a message fer Sir Marcus.”
“Oi'll git th' Butler,” say Tottie, “Mr Fribbens teark orl th'messajez.”
“Jus'lissen,” say Jarge, “Th'Militia ar'plann'n tew dew sum poach'n.”
“Oooh!” say Tottie, delighted at being the first in the house to hear such choice gossip, “Ware an'bludda wen?”
“Ternite,” say Jarge, slightla teark'n aback at har cuss'n, “Up by th'plantearshun.”
“Tilly, T-i-l-l-y,” say Tottie, rush'n orf up th'back-stare ter th'upper attics.
“Whuttizut?” say Tilly, hew'd bin wull away in th'land a'nod.
“Them blink'n Militia ar'poach'n up by th'plantearshun,” say Tottie, “Th'buggas.”
“If Cook ketch yew cuss'n, loike thet” say Tilly, “Yew'll git a sting a th'bum.”
“Jarge say ter tell th'Marsta,” say Tottie, “But Oi hint gawn tew.”
“We cud tell th'Cook,” say Tilly, “She'll know wot ter dew.”
“Cook, C-o-o-k,” say Tilly, rush'n orf down th'back-stare, “Poachers...”
“Wot poachers?” say th'Cook, “Ware an'bludda wen?”
“Ooh er,” say Tilly, taken aback by th'site a'th'Cook sett'n up in bed wi'no teeth in har hed.”
“Malicious wuns,” say Tilly, hew's mind hed stopp'd wark'n.
“Thar orl malicious,” say Cook, gobbl'n har teeth frum a jar by th'bed, “Thas betta!” she grunt, “Now tell me ware they gonna gOo an'dew orl thus hare poach'n?”
“Up a'th'Plantearshun,” say Tilly, “Thar's hunnard's ovem, they say.”
“Hunnards, yew say? Then yew betta git moi shawl,” say Cook, “Cuz Oi'll hetta gOo tell Fribbins.”
— • —
1.09.4 - Advance and be Recognised
Up at The Big House, the scullions told the cook, the cook told the butler and the butler told the master. The story having grown more dramatic with each telling, has finally been reduced to something nearer the truth by Sir Marcus's close questioning of a terrifed but spirited mini-scullion. He now knows that the poachers are out and is considering his tactics.
Meanwhile, up on Gallows Hill, the corporal's detachment of militia has settled down for their second night under canvas, and their temporary ‘mother hen’ is sitting on a log by the remains of the campfire (petty hofficers for the use of) for a moments dreaming on the subject of love, before turning in.
Below the encampment, two shadowy figures are approaching along Gallows Lane under cover of the hedge. Jarge is carrying a stoneware jar containing a quart of ale doctored with laudanum, and Jimma is hopping from foot to foot in nervous anticipation of the coming events:
“Fer Gawds'ake dunt keep leap'n abowt loike thet,” say Jarge, “Come hare an' git a'holt a'thus penknife.”
“Wot dew Oi wunt thet fer?” say Jimma, “Oi thort Oi wuz gonna wallop'im wi'th'jar.”
“NOobudda's gonna dew ena'wallop'n,” say Jarge, “Thas ter cut yer way threw th'bakka thet thar Corpr'ls tent so's yew kin elope wi'hiz Brown-Bess.”
“Then Oi lode'ut up,” say Jimma, “An' shewtta'nole in th'seat a'hiz britches.”
“Gimme strength!” say Jarge, “Yew hint dew'n ena shewt'n neetha. Jus'git th'musket as sune as Oi hev hiz back tarned, an' meark yersel'skearce.”
“Rye'chew are,” say Jimma, “Jus'purloin th'musket an'run - gott'ut.”
“Quietly,” say Jarge, “Werry quietly, thas nut just th'corpr'l thet we hetta worra abowt. Thar's a hull camp a'th'buggas.”
“Then wot?” say Jimma, “Wottle yew be up tew?”
“Oi'll be busy,” say Jarge, “Jus'dew wot Oi sed an' Oi'll meet'cher by th'plantearshun.”
“Who goes there?” exclaims the corporal, “Advance and be ... Oh tis George, ain't it?”
“Th'searme,” say Jarge, “By way a'been a herald.”
“Dispatches, what?” says the corporal, “Where away. my fine fellow?”
“A sartain young leddie a'yor aquaint'nce,” say Jarge, “Has sent yew a nite-cap.”
“Never wear'em, good sir,” says the corporal, “Overheats the brain, don't you know.”
“Thus wuns inna jar,” say Jarge, handing him th' stoneware jar, “Now just yew drink'ut orl down ter pleeze th'leddie.”
— • —
1.09.5 - Brown-Bess and the Pheasants
One of the few compensations of being in service at The Big House was the view from your attic bedroom. From there, godlike, you could survey the world. Unfortunately you were very rarely up there when there was anything worth surveying, except for tonight, that is.
From the highest dormers many eyes are watching Sir Marcus, as firmly seated in the saddle of his black stallion he sallies forth in search of poachers, followed by a straggling file of stablehands and footmen. They are heading up across the parkland towards the Gallows Hill Plantation, where in a few minutes time, they will pass in among the trees at the end furtherest from the Militia Camp:
“Hare they come,” say Jarge, a freshly snared brace a'fezzunts swing'n at hiz belt.
“Wot dew we dew wi'thus?” say Jimma, hefting his burden, a sartain snoring Militia corpor'l.
“Sett'im down agin thet tree,” say Jarge, “We'll sett'im up inna minnut.”
“Dew Oi load th'musket yit?” say Jimma, “Thar's a cupla ball an'charges in'iz pouch.”
“Just yew leeve thet ter me,” say Jarge, “Orl we wunt izza gud sharp crack.”
“Ware dew Oi shute frum, an' at hew?” say Jimma, hew wuz still feel'n bull-igerunt.
“How menna toimes dew Oi hetta tell yer,” say Jarge, “Yew dun't! Now git'chew up thus hare tree with thus hare stick an' weart fer Sir Marcus to gOo by.”
“Dew Oi haffta?” say Jimma, “Oi might miss the fun.”
“Wull,” say Jarge, giv'n him a leg up, “So long as yew dunt miss hiz hat wen Oi fire the gun.”
“Shussh,” say Jimma frum the tree, “Thar come'n inta th'wood.”
“Rite,” say Jarge, runn'n acrorst to hang th'fezzunts round th'corpr'l's neck an'then slipp'n ahint th'tree wi'hiz musket.
“Did you hear something?” hisses Sir Marcus to the nearest stableboy, then swings his horse in under Jimmy's tree.
“N-n-n-now!” squark Jimma, swip'n orf Sir Marcus's hat an' fall'n out a'th'tree.
“Blust!” say Jarge frum hiz hid'n place, as hiz Brown-Bess let orf wiv'a crack'n gret fart, “Oi'm gitt'n owtta hare.”
— • —
1.09.6 - Ambush at Gallows Hill
The bridleway through Gallows Hill Plantation separates the latest dense planting of fir trees from the more open stand of original beech and chestnuts; the subsoil there being of a chalky nature best suited to those species. However, the species currently attempting to plant themselves between the trees, are not really suited to that task.
Sir Marcus, with the help of a falling Jimma and a startled horse, is the first to take to the soil, ploughing a neat furrow in the leafmould. His example is immediately followed by the two footmen and the boot-boy, as they attempt to take cover from what sounds like a small cannon being discharged over their heads.
The stable hands, who are made of sterner stuff, then make a misguided attempt to charge the guns. Plunging in among the shadows, brambles and tree-roots, they capture their supposed assailant by sprawling all over him.
At this moment of melodramatic chaos, the corporal jerks awake and rends the woodland canopy with a terrible and unearthly cry, sending woodpigeons crashing though the leaves and pheasants through the undergrowth. A sound that also reaches the scullions, staring out across the park from their attic eerie:
“Didja hare thet?” say Tottie, shading her eyes against the brightness of the moon.
“Thas a kill, noiz loike thet!” say Tilly, “Thas a kill, fer sure.”
“Oooh er,” say Tottie, in har waill'n voice, “Are they orl ded?”
“Dunt bee'sa sulla,” say Cook, nudging the Housekeeper, “Thet'll ona be th'boot-boy.”
Meanwhile at the Plantation, the echoes are fading, the startled wildlife has gone to ground, and a passing breeze is clearing the air.
“Hellfire and Hades!” exclaims Sir Marcus, tightening his grip on Jimma's collar, “Am I surrounded by imbeciles?”
“Splfff-fft!” says Jimma, clogged with leafmould but otherwise in broad agreement.
“As for the rest of you,” says Sir Marcus, “Pull yourselves together and get out here in the moonlight where I can see you.”
While his small household brigade is sorting itself out and taking proper charge of the two prisoners, Sir Marcus rises to his feet, dusts off his hessian boots and looks round for his horse, of which there is no sign. The boot-boy, who has been lucky enough to avoid fulfilling Cook's prediction, gives fate a second chance by taking proud charge of the musket and ammunition pouch. As the boy slips back into the shadows, his master decides to impose his will on those in more immediate view.
“You,” he orders, wagging a finger at the stablehand contingent, “Retrieve my horse.”
“And You,” he says, stabbing a digit at the footmen, “Bring the prisoners.”
— • —
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
